i'll def have this done over the weekend, complete with different formatting. just putting this up to show i haven't forgotten bout this

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Sat Mar 10, 2018 2:43 am

by Annasiel

Neuros profile is up.

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Sat Mar 10, 2018 3:10 am

by UmbraSight

Eeeeeeee!

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2018 7:41 am

by Annasiel

How're things coming, Ghost, Quirbs~?

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2018 1:07 pm

by Quirbles

It's coming. Sorry for the wait. I'm back to writing posts but CSes still feel awkward. I'll sit down and write out what I can and then post it today.

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Wed Mar 14, 2018 5:34 am

by Annasiel

I understand!

Re: [REQ] ＢＬＡＣＫＯＵＴ(Open; Needs 5 Members)

Posted: Thu Mar 15, 2018 7:23 am

by Snowskeeper

Name: Jack “Virtue” Adams.

Age: 32.

Sex: No remaining sexual characteristics, but still considers himself male.

Personality: Nothing about Mr Adams is graceful or elegant. He’s boxy, efficient, crude and brutal. He delights in spreading dread, having lost the ability to achieve much else at a young age, and in absurdism. He isn’t stupid, exactly, but he has a tendency to underthink things--being bullet-resistant does that to you.

Virtue is absolutely not a good man; not even a little bit. He has his own code of morals, though. He enjoys intimidating people, but he rarely hurts people who haven’t earned it in some way, and although he finds pleasure in finding creative ways to hurt people, he never hurts them for fun. Although his loyalty to Selmalite is largely practical, it is fairly absolute; he won’t be the one to betray them first. Although he has no problem with liars, he finds most forms of treachery distasteful.

Adams doesn’t mind being called a monster, but is contemptuous of anyone who insists that his monstrousness comes from his cybernetics. He is a transhumanist, through and through.

Description: Smiling-man style; his breathing apparatus, now mostly obsolete, is moulded to look like a sharp-tooth grin. He likes little touches like that--adding human inhumanity to his otherwise-industrial suite of augmentations. A Selmie jumpsuit obscures, for the most part, sheer metal. The eyes are gone; a blank, black bar’s been welded over the sockets where they should have been. Even the skin on his face and back doesn’t really belong there; it’s graftwork, for the most part, and it’s sitting on top of more metal.

Virtue’s as tall and broad as you’d expect a walking weapons platform to be, though he has the good grace to keep most of the really dangerous stuff out of sight, for the most part. The best thing you could say about his agility is that he’s capable of fitting through doors, though with all that wired muscle, there aren’t many who can outrun or outclimb him, given the time to work up to his top speed.

Equipment: Various weapons built into his cybernetics, ranging from a plasma knife in his right hand to a gun in his left arm. A power-supply built into his back, near his reinforced spine. A crap-tonne of armour. Artificial musculature, as well as several artificial organs. His entire respiratory system has been completely replaced, several times over. His brain is still mostly intact, but it’s been heavily remodelled, and his skull has been reinforced, along with most of his bones.
He is very much a walking tank dressed up in a thug’s overalls.

History: Virtue was born into a family of miners, and spent most of his early life either learning to operate heavy machinery or actually doing that thing. During a cave-in, the rebreathing equipment that miners typically wear to protect their lungs from the toxic dust was disturbed, and he inhaled a big ole mouthful of the stuff, thoroughly destroying his lungs. For most people, that would probably mean death, but most people spent their paychecks on family or booze or whatever whenever they got off; the people who saved their cash up in significant chunks, and who didn’t take loans from scary men with scary lengths of pipe, were a comparatively small minority. Mr Adam’s comparatively stable savings account and excellent credit-rating were enough to get him through the door of a clinic, and onto an iron lung.

Unfortunately, when next he woke up, he was informed that if he wanted to keep breathing for longere than a few months, he was going to need to buy himself some proper lungs. If he couldn’t dig up the money for it, he’d be taken off the lung and dumped out in the street with the rest of the garbage. The doctor put it in cleaner terms, but that was what she was saying.

Helpfully, she had a recommendation for him: a mid-ranking Selmalite employee named Charity with an eye for finances and an obsession with all kinds of currency. As Virtue was to find out later, Charity’s favourite form of currency was the favour. The hospital had recommended Virtue to Charity because Charity, through Selmalite, was the main reason the hospital was still in operation. Virtue’s loans, processed through a bank Selmalite controlled, would start out with very reasonable interest rates, and those interest rates would grow the moment Virtue began doing things that Selmalite didn’t like. And when they reached the point where Virtue couldn’t keep up with his monthly payments, the screws would come out on his shiny new industrial-strength lungs. What Charity wanted him to do was come work for Selmalite, as their newest street-level thug. Charity was a loyal soul, of course, but he felt that having as many soldiers in his pocket as possible could only ensure that everyone else would stay loyal to the higher-ups, too. And if it kept the higher-ups loyal to the little guys, too, well...

Virtue got over his irritation with this arrangement fairly quickly. The lungs weren’t top-of-the-line by any stretch of the imagination--they were, by the standards of the day, pretty clunky and grumpy, and until he got used to them, breathing was something of a chore--but they were also extraordinarily robust and reliable. And he found that he enjoyed the disgusted, fearful reactions of the people he passed in the street, both to his new flesh-synced mask, and to his new Selmie jumpsuit. There was no particular need to pay off the loan, so long as he could keep up, so instead, he began saving up for parts that would make him better at his new job. Make it so that he’d never have to worry about, for instance, getting blown back into the hall by some asshole’s pet explosive booby-trap.

The first time that happened, he fell behind on his payments. Charity had come in to talk to him about it personally. Said he understood; that he’d been through that whole rigmarole, before, too, and so, just this once, they were going to forgive the late payment. That had hurt more than the fucking nailbomb.

So he’d teched up. None of that flimsy synthflesh shit, either. Full flesh-sync steel; industrial-grade arms and legs. Tank armour, basically. Every bit of himself he could have taken out, he did. And it made him a better thug. People feared him. His bosses loved him, whenever he wasn’t in the room with them. He had no friends, but he didn’t feel like he needed any, either. He was very, very happy.